


teatime

by okapi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), No beta we fall like Crowley, Only One Bed, Oral Sex, Other, POV Alternating, Tea, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Train Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: 1935. Aziraphale is enjoying afternoon tea on a luxury train and feeling a bit guilty about that naughty thing he has stashed in his suitcase.Only one bed trope. PWP but also setting crossover with Agatha Christie'sMurder on the Orient ExpressandSPOILERSfor that work.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 155
Collections: Dick or Treat - Scrohto Region





	teatime

**Author's Note:**

> For 2020 Dick or Treat. Another reminder that this contains spoilers for Agatha Christie's _Murder on the Orient Express_.

“It’s a work of art, Pierre,” sighed Aziraphale as he gazed upon the two-tiered rack of miniature delicacies.

Cakes, sandwiches, tarts, everything perfectly scaled and sitting atop a thin table of polished mahogany which once had been folded neatly against the wall of the compartment and was now raised and locked into place perpendicularly.

“Please give my most sincere compliments to the chef.”

“I will do so, Monsieur Fell,” replied Pierre softly as he filled Aziraphale’s teacup.

Aziraphale admired the amber colour of the stream as it poured from the teapot, and he breathed in the delicious fragrance of tannins and bergamot.

“Anything else, Monsieur?”

“No, thank you, Pierre.”

Alone again, Aziraphale’s second sigh of pleasure was quickly followed by a pout of guilt.

It really was a most hedonistic indulgence on his part: a sumptuous tea served in a private sleeping compartment on a luxury train chugging across the European Continent on a snowy December afternoon.

But he had done such good work in Belgrade, he argued with himself. Really, he had! And he’d heard from a reliable source, someone who was as particular about his palate and plate as Aziraphale, that on this train a gourmet might wish to keep the menu as a souvenir.

And that source had not exaggerated. Aziraphale sipped and sighed and marveled how well the sweet and savoury confections complimented the light, delicate flavour of the tea.

Aziraphale sighed a third time. He knew that this afternoon tea was a secondary indulgence; there was a different, deeper guilt which was gnawing at him. It was another kind of extravagance, or potential extravagance, and its source was a certain item hidden in his suitcase up on the overhead rack, an item that he’d acquired by pure chance, pure chance, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, when he was weening a young noble-hearted American from the vice of gambling. Aziraphale knew he ought to have disposed of the item, but he was intrigued. When he returned to London, he told himself, he might experiment in privacy. This train was far too public. Really, every noise was heard, down to his next door neighbour’s gargle and spit.

Aziraphale’s attention was drawn once more to the delights on the table before him.

Oh, such loveliness! Afternoon tea. And with snow falling thickly outside. And he was inside, cosy and warm.

Aziraphale wondered, he just wondered, about that item, that interesting item in his suitcase. Might it be possible to see, just to see how it felt, well, say, tonight? How loud could it possibly be? And, more importantly, how might it feel?

Aziraphale sipped his tea and nibbled his cakes and let his thoughts wander where they might until—

The door opened.

“Hello, Aziraphale! Fancy meeting you here. Teatime, is it?”

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale looked Crowley up and down and down and up and briefly wondered how the demon always managed to make the darkest gentleman’s wear of any era look rakishly fashionable and not at all funereal. Aziraphale was quickly reminded that Crowley had literally made a pact, that is to say, an eternally binding employment contract, with Devil, and such perks were more than likely included in the fine print.

Pierre appeared in threshold. He spoke hastily and apologetically. “Monsieur Fell, this gentleman says he is a friend of yours.”

“An associate, yes. It’s all right, Pierre. Come in, Crowley. Have a seat.”

“Very well,” said Pierre, looking relieved. “The train, it is so full this afternoon. I will bring a cup and—”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s teacup, sniffed, then grimaced. “Uh, no eau de petticoat for me, just a cup of coffee, the good stuff, if you please. Thank you, Pierre.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“So,” said Crowley as he removed his coat and hat and settled himself beside Aziraphale on the bench seat. “Still keeping the halo shiny?”

Aziraphale had finally arrived at the moment to take his revenge for that quip in Rome. He scoffed and spoke nastily,

“What kind of question is that, Crowley? ‘Still keeping the halo shiny?’ What am I supposed to be keeping shiny, an aardvark?”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale through dark spectacles.

Really, it had sounded much better in the rehearsals in Aziraphale’s head. Not so nasally and much, much wittier. Aziraphale was about to feel very bad, indeed, when Crowley chuckled.

“Been sitting on that one all this time, eh, angel? All right, we’re even for my foul mood in Rome. But let’s not talk about oysters. I didn’t know you were in the area. We could’ve invoked our Agreement.”

“I am not certain I would’ve even known where to contact you. I haven’t seen you in ages.” Aziraphale wished that hadn’t come out quite so much like a neglected wife. “I’ve just spent a fortnight in Belgrade. Oh, would you care for—?” Aziraphale motioned to the foodstuffs on the little table.

“Belgrade! I should’ve known that was you! No, thank you. You know there’s not a single sleeping compartment available on this train. It seems that all of Europe has elected to travel this afternoon! Kind of odd, actually, for this time of year.”

Aziraphale frowned. “So, you’re going to be sitting up in the Pullman car tonight?”

“Of course not. I’m going to be bunking with you here.”

“But, Crowley, there’s only one bed!”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose, and his beautiful thin lips twisted into a smirk.

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm, but he huffed, nonetheless. “This bed,” he patted the bench seat between, “when made up is barely big enough for one man-shaped creature much less two!”

“But what if one man-shaped creature lies flat,” Crowley made a smoothing motion with his hand, “and the other lies atop him like so,” he made a sweep of his other hand, “now, wouldn’t that be sort of like those petit fours? Two layers of bliss.” He wriggled his hands together suggestively.

“Oh, Crowley! You’re such a rogue! Aziraphale’s face grew even hotter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you orchestrated this whole thing.” He reached for a petit four and shoved it in his mouth to prevent himself from saying any more, and the little cake was so good that he ate another and another in rapid succession and forgot his embarrassment entirely.

Just then Pierre reappeared with the coffee. “Ninety-seven minutes, Monsieur Crowley.”

“Ninety-seven minutes?” echoed Crowley, incredulously.

Pierre motioned to the window. “It is the snow. The train must go at a snail’s pace.”

“Well, if it must, it must. All right. Thank you, Pierre.”

Aziraphale studied Crowley’s face. “You’re leaving! You only suggested that, that business of the bed, to get me stirred up!”

Crowley grinned. “Worked like a charm, didn’t it? Yes, angel, I got on at Vinkovci, and I’m getting off at Bord. It’s a little Balkan project I’m working on. Oh, don’t look so disappointed.”

“I’m not,” insisted Aziraphale. “I’m thrilled!”

Aziraphale was not thrilled.

Crowley put his smug lips to his smug coffee and sipped it smugly. He said nothing.

Aziraphale returned to his tea and sandwiches and tried to ignore the awkwardness of the silence.

Finally, Crowley spoke.

“There’s something I would like to know, angel.”

“What’s that?”

“What you were thinking about just before I arrived?”

Aziraphale’s mouth gaped.

Did he know?!

“Oh, ho!” Crowley’s eyebrows rose again. “ _That_ naughty? Satan’s left bullock, what have you been up to, old thing?”

“Nothing!”

Crowley laughed. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll always forgive you, Crowley, I’m an angel.”

Crowley scowled. “Not that. So, what is it, then? Something you got up to in Belgrade? Without me?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Aziraphale turned his head towards the window. “Oh, Crowley! I believe the train has stopped.”

“Damn.”

They both moved towards the glass and pressed their faces to it.

“Snowbank,” said Crowley. “A big one by the looks of it. We’ll be stuck here for a while. Maybe all night.”

They turned their heads and looked at each other; one corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched, and Aziraphale shot him a coy glance.

Just then, there was a knock at the door and Pierre’s voice. They flew back to their original positions.

“I’m so sorry, Monsieur. The snow!” exclaimed Pierre as he entered.

“It’s all right, Pierre. These things happen,” soothed Aziraphale.

Pierre indicated the tea things. “May I?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. It was lovely, really lovely.”

“Two bottles of the best red on board and two glasses, yeah?” said Crowley as he slipped a wad of bills into Pierre’s tunic pocket.

“Of course. Right away, sir.”

“And I’ll be staying with my friend here until we reach Brod.”

Pierre looked questioningly from Crowley to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale nodded.

Pierre returned the nod, one curt motion of acceptance.

“As you wish, gentlemen.”

Very little was said until Aziraphale and Crowley had each drained their first glass of red. They had, however, by mute agreement switched places, with Crowley now ensconced by the window.

A snow-blanketed valley lay beyond the motionless train.

“C’mere, angel.” Crowley drew off his dark glasses and put them on the table next to the wine.

Jackets were removed and hung on hooks. Neckties were undone. Collars were loosened. And Aziraphale quite happily crawled into Crowley’s lap, straddling him as best he could.

“Tell me, angel. What were you thinking of?”

Aziraphale melted. All his reservations and scruples and protests abandoned him when Crowley kissed his neck. “I have acquired, by happenstance, on my honour, in the course of my noble angelic duties, a Star Electric Massage Vibrator.”

Crowley snorted. “Have you now? In Belgrade, of all places.”

“It was in the possession of a young American I was helping to overcome his wagering vice.”

“Hmm.”

“You know it?”

“Gambling? Yeah, that was one of mine. A good one, too. Like Alpha Centauri.”

“Crowley!”

“Oh, you mean your magic wand? I know of it, yes, or at least of its kind. Have you tried it out?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah, but you were thinking about it.”

“Perhaps. When I return to London.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, then kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “Why don’t we retire early tonight?”

“There’s only one bed, Crowley,” said Aziraphale very softly.

“Mm. Isn’t it lovely?” He sucked gently on Aziraphale’s earlobe. Aziraphale shivered, then began to grind his lower half ever so slightly into Crowley’s, rocking in Crowley’s lap as Crowley cradled him.

Crowley hummed.

“We’re hereditary enemies,” protested Aziraphale feebly, but he didn’t stop his grinding. He even slipped a hand beneath Crowley’s waistcoat and rubbed at Crowley’s nipples, first the left, then the right, through the fabric of his shirt. “Get thee behind me, foul fiend,” he whispered, slightly breathless.

“Mm. S’that what you want, angel?” asked Crowley. He squeezed two fistfuls of Aziraphale’s arse.

“Among other things,” admitted Aziraphale with a groan.

“Well, then,” said Crowley in a sing-song voice. “Why don’t we retire early?”

“We can’t retire this early, Crowley!”

“No? Too bad. Well, at the appropriate hour, we’ll convince Pierre to leave us to ourselves, and we’ll see about this new toy of yours.”

“But isn’t it, uh, loud?”

“It won’t be when I’m holding it.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear. I must confess I’m looking forward to that.” Aziraphale laughed and sank deeper into Crowley’s embrace. “And in the meantime, we’ve some wine to drink.”

* * *

Seduction had never been Crowley’s preferred brand of temptation. He usually farmed it out to lesser demons or hidebound Dukes of Hell or simply let the humans themselves lead each other down that particular primrose path.

But seducing an angel, seducing _his_ angel—for within the confines of his own demonic mine Crowley thought of Aziraphale as his—was the exception that proved the rule. And there really wasn’t much to it, a bit of being in the right place at the right time, a bit of shameless flirting, and a bottle or two of wine.

But the results? The results were spectacular.

Like now, they were both sitting on the made-up train bed, Aziraphale in Crowley’s lap, leaning back against Crowley’s bare chest, with his nightshirt rucked up to his waist, legs splayed. Crowley was guiding the Star Vibrator, which was now purring as gently as a contented kitten, between Aziraphale’s thighs.

Aziraphale had one of Crowley’s black handkerchiefs stuffed in his mouth to keep from making too much noise. The last thing either of them wanted was Pierre’s running feet or a concerned inquiry from a neighbour—not that the latter was likely given who exactly Aziraphale’s neighbour was, but still, the principle held. Crowley could deal with any interruption, but it would spoil the mood, however fleetingly, and this mood was not to spoilt.

When Crowley wasn’t licking Aziraphale’s neck—really, the sweat of an angel in the throes of carnal pleasure put any beverage the humans brew to shame—he was gazing down at Aziraphale’s body or watching their reflection in the glass.

Aziraphale writhed and mewled and sweated as the vibrating apparatus made its way around, around, around, pressing lightly, teasingly, tauntingly, against his skin. Finally, he wrenched the handkerchief from his mouth and turned his head and slammed his mouth into Crowley’s. They didn’t so much as kiss as feed off each other.

Crowley willingly, wantonly, hungrily swallowed his angel’s cry.

When Aziraphale pulled away, his eyes were glassy, and his mouth looked slightly bruised.

Debauched. Utterly debauched, thought Crowley.

“I’m soft,” Aziraphale murmured weakly.

“Wonderful so,” agreed Crowley, who switched off the vibrator and peppered tiny kisses along the side of Aziraphale’s face. He set the vibrator on a towel beside them, then made to wrap his arms around his angel, an act which was prevented, momentarily, by Aziraphale drawing his nightshirt completely off and tossing it aside.

“Beautiful,” said Crowley, and he meant it. He ran his hands all over Aziraphale’s body, caressing and fondling and, yes, in his own way, worshipping the angel.

Aziraphale leaned back into Crowley’s embrace and sighed. They kissed and petted each other and admired themselves in the window until Aziraphale said,

“Can we try it on the inside?”

Crowley smiled. “Of course.”

* * *

The handkerchief gag proved absolutely necessary, for as Crowley thrust the device in and out of Aziraphale, the angel persisted in making high-pitched whining noises that Crowley eventually, much to his chagrin, had to shush.

By the time Aziraphale climaxed for the second time, both he and Crowley were damp with sweat, Aziraphale’s sweat, of course, for Crowley, true to his original form, did not perspire.

“S’good, Crowley, so very good. I like…”

His voice trailed off.

Crowley’s hands were, as before, caressing Aziraphale, all of him, chest, arms, belly, sex, and thighs, but he leaned up to pinch the skin of Aziraphale’s neck between his teeth. “Say it.”

“I like being _fucked_ by you, Crowley.”

The words, said in that voice, went straight to the core of Crowley, and he wondered just who was getting seduced now.

Him. He knew it was him.

Crowley groaned. “The devil take me…”

“He already did.”

“Shut up.”

“I like being _fucked_ by you, Crowley. Will you do it again? Will you _fuck_ me, Crowley? Please.”

Aziraphale knew what he was doing, and in his own way, he was just as ruthless as Crowley.

“All night, angel.”

“Oh, good. I want, I want you to get thee behind me.” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder nervously. “With, uh, that, too.” He nodded at the wand on the towel.

Naughty angel, thought Crowley, but he didn’t say it. What he did say, in a light conversational tone, was

“Bugger your arse with my cock while I fuck your cunt with the wand? Or the other way round?” His fingers were already teasing Aziraphale’s arsehole, and Aziraphale was already curling his back and lifting his bottom in invitation.

“The, uh, former, I think? It seems a big large for…”

“Oh, you didn’t get the attachment? Let’s remedy that.” Crowley waved a hand and beside the vibrator there appeared a second, slimmer head.

“OH!” moaned Aziraphale. “Then we could try it both ways?”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s shoulder. “And if you can’t decide which way you like best, we’ll do it again and again until you do.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale twisted towards Crowley and grasped Crowley’s face in his two hands and kissed him. They kept kissing as Crowley fingered Aziraphale’s arse and cunt.

Aziraphale broke the kiss to look down and watch Crowley’s fingers play with him. He hummed. “So good.” He glanced over his shoulder and bounced a bit on Crowley’s other fingers. “So good. _Fuck_ me, Crowley, _fuck_ me.”

They did it one way—a frenzy of Aziraphale bouncing on Crowley’s buggering cock while Crowley coached him through using the vibrator on himself—and now they were doing it the other, facing each other, Aziraphale straddling Crowley, impaled on Crowley’s cock with the vibrator buzzing in his arse.

Aziraphale had been sucking on Crowley’s nipples for some time, and Crowley was utterly drunk on the sensation, which was mingled with that provided by the tight, wet heat of Aziraphale’s cunt and the taste of Aziraphale’s skin and the ripe scent of their coupling and the little noises he made…

After they both came, they clung together, Crowley attempting to mop them up the scene with a towel.

“There are things I want to say that I can’t say, Crowley.”

“I know. Don’t say them, angel. Don’t say them aloud. Walls have ears, eh? And I don’t mean your bastard neighbour, the,” Crowley glanced at the clock, “late Mister Ratchett.”

The tip of Aziraphale’s tongue on his chest trailed across Crowley’s chest, forming Crowley realised a moment later, crude letters.

YOURS

“Oh, angel,” choked Crowley. He dropped the towel and crushed Aziraphale to him. Still locked together, he ran his own tongue, a tongue which compared to Aziraphale’s was much better engineered for calligraphy, along the ridge from Aziraphale’s neck to the tip of his shoulder.

YOURS

YOURS

YOURS

But when Aziraphale dipped his head and began anew

L O V —

Crowley stopped him and yanked his head up.

“No. Not that. I’m not _nice_ , Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice was cold, sober and sobering. Part of him was sick at the wide-eyed look of surprise Aziraphale gave him, especially when it was immediately clouded by hurt and disappointment. He hated, hated, hated disappointing his angel, but there was nothing for it. “Foul fiend, remember? Hereditary enemies? I got on this train, in part, to distract one of my enemies’ brightest warriors from his mission of goodness,” Crowley sniffed, “to tempt him, to seduce him.”

Aziraphale’s gaze turned hard. “Well, get on with it then!” he said prissily.

With one swift, sure motion, Crowley sprang to his feet, threw Aziraphale on his back onto the bed, and mounted him. And with every brutal thrust, he chanted silently.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

Only after he came did Crowley dare look Aziraphale in the eye.

The angel smiled so sweetly, so earnestly, oh, Satan, it made something soft buried deep, deep inside Crowley crumple when he smiled like that.

“You are not very nice, Crowley.”

“No, I’m not.”

That was what they said, but that was not at all what they meant.

* * *

Crowley helped Aziraphale to a sitting position. Aziraphale looked about and said conversationally,

“I’m glad we asked for extra towels.” He sniffed. “You know, I quite fancy being on my knees.”

Aziraphale sucked him off, and hell’s bells, what that angel didn’t know about fellatio wasn’t worth knowing, and then Crowley tongued Aziraphale to climax an unprecedented four times, arse and cunt, with and without the vibrator in the un-tongued orifice. The angel was nothing if not rigorous in his examination of the device’s potentials.

Aziraphale then pushed Crowley up until he was kneeling on the bed, facing the wall. He then proceeded to spread Crowley’s buttocks and bury his face in Crowley’s cleft and his tongue in Crowley’s arsehole while Crowley stroked his cock and looked over at the window and watched the whole spectacle.

Aziraphale had been right: it was near impossible for two man-shaped creatures to fit on the narrow train bed, but they managed it for a while, lying head to foot and foot to head, fingering, sucking, licking whatever part of the other was nearest.

“I’m going to get rid of it,” said Aziraphale, craning his head to look at the vibrator, which had rolled to the floor.

“Probably for the best.”

“Lead us not into temptation.”

Crowley hummed noncommittally.

“How much longer until dawn?” asked Azirphale.

Crowley sniffed. “An hour or so.”

Aziraphale sighed and planted a kiss on the shaft of Crowley’s cock. Then he hummed and found the head of Crowley’s cock and began to suckle. Crowley responded by digging two long fingers into Aziraphale’s cunt and curling them in a way that made Aziraphale squirm and moan and hum around his cock. When they’d both come, Aziraphale demanded Crowley’s tongue.

“Teatime already?” teased Crowley as he slid to the floor. Aziraphale sat up and spread his legs. Crowley slotted himself into the V. “Going to pour it out for me?”

Aziraphale snorted. His gaze wandered to the far wall, which was the colour of Earl Grey tea. “Crowley, just out of curiosity, is it a miracle that my neighbour hasn’t complained about the noise?”

“Oh, no. That’s the other reason I’m here. He can’t complain because a dozen people murdered him last night.”

“What?! _While we were fucking_?”

“Hush, angel. It’s teatime,” said Crowley as his weird, wicked tongued neared Aziraphale’s cunt. “And this is my favourite blend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Here is the [1920 advertisement](https://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/619409257162571776/danismm-the-star-electric-massage-vibrator) for the Star Electric Massage Vibrator. If anyone's curious, this work was inspired by a romance bookshop called The Ripped Bodice which sells Trope Tea and [the Earl Grey is called Only One Bed](https://www.therippedbodicela.com/product/trope-tea).


End file.
